Future Tense
by lucifer ravana
Summary: Les Miserables in a steampunk world. The scenery isn't the only thing that's changed. Grantaire awakens to find himself in an unsettling situation. Perhaps he should have put the bottle down. Rated for violence, death, and segways.
1. Chapter 1

AN: Oh, lord, how do I warn for this fic? It contains loads of anime references. From Baccano to Gundam to Monster, if we were to rattle off all the references, we'd be here awhile. Obviously, these are NOT the Amis you were looking for. While the fic is finished and is still being beta'ed, I'm taking a chance in posting it here. If it goes well and all, we'll start working on our second big fic. And by it 'going well', I mean that we won't be run out of the fandom with metaphysical pitchforks and mobs.

As mentioned before, this is co-written with TCRegan, who is a supremely talented writer.

There will be multiple pairings presented throughout. Off-hand, I know there will be Joly/Bossuet, Eponine/Montparnasse, Marius/Cosette. If there are any questions about the fic, feel free to ask them in reviews. If they're spoilers-based, I will answer said questions with dissertations about either ponies or jello.

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**Chapter One**

Normally filled with light and laughter, conversation and companionship, the darkened room of the Café Musain held only the sounds of its lone occupant, who snored quietly. Drunk on absinthe among other things, head down on his table, he dreamt quietly, unaware of his surroundings. The silent stillness was broken suddenly by the sound of the back door opening and footsteps approaching. Grantaire jerked and sat up, wiping away the bit of drool at the corner of his mouth. Blinking blearily, he willed the room into focus, trying to see through the blackness.

Muscles aching, crick in his neck, he leaned back in his chair, stretching. He picked up the bottle he'd been cradling and drained it, sighing with contentedness as the sweet anise-flavored spirit tickled his taste buds, and turned to see who was joining him first this evening.

The ruins of the decrepit Musain was not the place Joly was expecting to find Grantaire. He supposed his old comrade still had some degree of sentimentality affixed to the place but history belonged in the past and the future was what they made of it.

Jehan had spoken eloquently on this fact. "Push forward. Never look back," had been the gist of the flowery speech.

Words were carved in the walls of the Musain to emphasize this fact.

'Here is where it starts.' Jehan could be the master of understatement. Joly looked upon the words for a few seconds before turning to face his beleaguered old friend. "You look a sight. It's not often you're away from your post. I have not been sent to fetch you so you need not worry about that." He was dressed in perfect white from his shoes to cravat. The only blot on him was the dark bag he carried about from job to job.

"I am making a house call. Perhaps you can accompany me since this particular patient can be a little troublesome."

Grantaire set the bottle on the table and scrubbed his face with both hands, scratching at two days' worth of stubble on his chin. He glanced at Joly, who looked like a beacon in the dark room. Yawning, he stood intent on traveling back to the main room of the café to inquire about another bottle when he stopped short.

The room looked different. Different things hung on the walls, different books strewn about. The chairs and tables seemed the same, but almost disused, as if no one had occupied them for some time. Perhaps his friends were simply playing a joke on him? With a frown, he registered Joly's words slowly. Post, he'd said. Not often he was away from... what post? If there was a joke to be made there, the joke would be referring to his usual table. That technically was his post as he occupied it regularly. It was his.

"House call?" he asked, trying to make sense of it. "If you need help, of course I'll come."

Though Grantaire was unsure of what he could possibly do. With no medical training, inebriated as he was, he was likely to be more of a hindrance than a help. But if Joly needed him, he would follow.

"Not with the patient, exactly. I know you lack medical training. The aid I would require would normally come from Bossuet, but he has his own agenda today. No, this particular patient has a habit of keeping guests, shall we say? It's best that I have back-up in case things get dicey."

As Joly spoke, the corner of his mouth turned up with a smirk. "Your reputation ought to come in handy." He wouldn't ask why Grantaire chose to place himself in the Musain. It was none of his business, and he was hardly concerned about his old friend. If there was a problem, it would have been handled long ago.

"It isn't that far. We can walk." He held the cafe door open for Grantaire with a surgical glove-clad hand. He had taken to wearing them long ago, having been through the years of the Purple Death and the fevered plague that gripped Paris only a few months ago. Nasty little viruses, those, causing people to choke on their own tongue.

Terrible months but profitable ones.

Grantaire frowned but crossed the room. Joly seemed... off to him. Normally jovial, if a little subdued at times due to another cold or impending bout of influenza, he rarely spoke so abruptly. Of course, Grantaire had been two bottles deep before he put his head down, so his head wasn't quite straight. Unable to shake this lethargy, he merely followed.

Another odd thing was that he hardly saw Joly outside the company of Bossuet. Wondering what could possibly have the eagle's attention, he opened his mouth to ask, and closed it just as quickly. He'd caught Joly's eye and something he saw unsettled him. Shivering a bit, he thrust his hands in the pockets of his coat and put his head down, walking through the open door without another question.

Paris was a beehive of activity. Summer reigned the seasons at this point so the majority of people were outside enjoying the fresh air and sun. A few groups stood around on corners, talking quietly to one another. Street vendors were on the sidewalks, peddling their wares. A few bolder shopkeepers called out to their customers, inviting them in to sample a few of their delicacies and to pass the word along.

Joly sidestepped people with his usual grace, his long white coat swishing around his legs as he walked. He narrowly avoided a boy on a scooter who took one look at Joly and quickly crossed the street.

"Kids these days," he said mostly to himself. "They're going to get themselves killed. Wherever are the parents in all of this? The current trend of homelessness is surely to blame, is it not? Jehan ought to be a bit more careful about that. Still, I cannot blame him. He does try to take in as many children as he can. No, the problem surely rests with the parents. Having far too many offspring than they can afford, or sending them off to beg for them. Suffer the little children, Grantaire. In every corrupt society, it is always the children that end up the worst."

He smiled a strange, airy smile even as he shifted to avoid a few bicycles headed in the opposite direction.

The people on the streets gave Grantaire a wide berth, deliberately stepping out of his way, even if that meant going into oncoming traffic. One of them was nearly run down by a fiacre. Joly didn't pause in his movements. "It's almost a shame to see so many being so very careless with their lives. Don't they know how precious a gift life can be and how easily it can be snatched away? No, I suppose they don't. Why should they need to think of such things when they have us to think of it for them?"

A bit of smog covered the air from nearby factories, and through it one could see the grandiose buildings, overshadowing the Musain and the shops down below, casting looming shadows over the streets. They were fine works of art in it of themselves, built of thick glass and heavy metals; they glimmered against the sun, taking on an almost crystalline appearance against the decay of the old buildings against them.

Grantaire blinked in the sun, one hand up to block the offensive light. A light breeze ruffled his hair, offering a soothing caress, but something was wrong. The sounds were different, the smells were different. In addition to the laughter of kids, the bustle of crowds, the clopping of hooves, there was a buzzing sound. He turned around, trying to pinpoint what it was, never having heard anything quite like that before. A child on a bicycle - but it wasn't a bicycle. It was a contraption that not even Leonardo da Vinci himself could have imagined. Silver and painted, it was a hunk of metal twisted to look like a bicycle - something Grantaire had only ever seen drawings of - with some sort of spout at the back of it, spewing a foul black smoke.

Well. That explained the stench in the air. No. Not entirely. In the distance, he could see tall cylindrical stacks belching out more of the same black smoke. The normally clear day had a bit of a foggy overtone to it and he coughed into his elbow, lungs unused to it. He'd picked up the unfortunate habit of smoking in his youth and just as quickly dropped it when he realized the detriment to his physical activity. Just like that time, his lungs burned a bit now.

Oddest of all was that people seemed to know him. Or at least they recognized him on sight, taking one look at the pair of them and hurrying away with their heads down. Frowning, he looked at Joly as he hurried to catch up with him.

"Joly, what's going on? Some sort of expo? What was that thing that boy was riding and what are those?" he asked, pointing at the smoke stacks.

Joly eyed him sidelong. "Are you drunk, Grantaire? I do hope that means you're off the clock entirely. You know how you can get when you're drunk." He couldn't resist a shudder at the remembrance. Normally he didn't mind his friend's wild mood swings, but sometimes Grantaire just couldn't be stopped, save for with a look from _him_.

"That was a scooter. One of the newer models just released at the beginning of the year. Combeferre presented you with one a few months ago. Far as I know, you never had need to use it. As for the stacks, they're factories. Merchants of death, if you ask me. Too much smoke makes for lack of breathing, but who are we to slow the tide of progress? Combeferre speaks of survival of the fittest and Jehan just embraces it as another crowning jewel in the crown he calls humanity's plight. Rest assured, Grantaire, that when we take charge, such contraptions won't matter at all."

Was Grantaire drunk? Yes. He most definitely indeed was drunk. He had to be. How could he not possibly remember something like that? A scooter. Odd name for it. And apparently Combeferre gave him one. That in itself was confusing. As far as he knew, Combeferre didn't particularly like him. He certainly chose not to engage in conversation with him like the others, though he remained amicable enough if Grantaire ever needed a word. A present from Combeferre.

He followed slowly through his haze, staying quiet as they walked. The scenery shortly changed to a much more serene neighborhood. A wrought-iron gate separated the gravel road leading up to the large house atop the hill, definitely owned by some rich bourgeois. Joly pressed one of the buttons to the contraption located right by the gate.

"I'm here. Do tell Monsieur Gillenormand that his doctor has arrived."

It unsettled Grantaire that he couldn't recall when Joly had started taking on patients either, and he tried to think of when his friend might have finally gained his license to start practicing medicine full time.

A voice soon crackled back at them. "Opening up the gates. Please hurry." With that, the iron gates swung open, pushed by an invisible hand to allow the two guests passage.

Lost in thought, Grantaire startled at that voice, heart racing. The gates opened and he gaped, open-mouthed. Some kind of mechanism? Like a drawbridge perhaps, only with different engineering to let the gate open sideways rather than at a ninety-degree angle? Stunned, he followed Joly inside and up the front walk, wondering exactly how drunk he was.

Reaching the door, they were let inside by a young maid who blushed at the sight of them and took their coats with nary a word.

Another woman came down the stairs, this one very much the maid's senior and with none of the previous woman's blushes or smiles. "He is in a bad way, doctor," she started as she led them up the stairs. "He has been up all night expunging his dinner, and when none remained, his sickness turned green."

"Green?" Joly inquired. "Bright or dark?"

"Dark, doctor."

Grantaire followed, still in quite a haze. The conversation seemed off to him. The man, whomever they were discussing, apparently had dark green sickness. Did that mean his vomit was green? He tried not to think too much on it, his uneasiness passing as they were lead upstairs.

"How unfortunate." Joly sounded genuine but he gave Grantaire a private smile as the woman opened the door to the M. Gillenormand's bedroom. The old man was sitting up in bed, his skin pale, and hair stuck to his head with sweat.

The ambiance inside the house was normal. Stuffy, rich, bourgeoisie, but normal. There were no weird scooters or odd out of place devices here. Wooden tables, oil paintings, plush carpets. It wasn't the sort of place in which he'd normally be found, but it most certainly was a Parisian dwelling in the manner of which he felt comfortable.

"About time you showed," Gillenormand growled. "Leave us," he gestured to the woman who shut the door behind herself.

Joly placed his bag upon his patient's nightstand. "You look like you're having a bad time of it. Aside from nausea, have you any other symptoms?" Opening up the bag, he gingerly took off his gloves and let them fall into a nearby waste bin. Another pair of gloves awaited him in the bag and he slipped these on as M. Gillenormand spoke.

"Dizziness. Can't keep anything down. Can barely even move my legs! They feel numb from the knees down." Gillenormand slipped a disdainful look at Grantaire before continuing to talk at Joly. "It was a disease given to me by one of the friends your blasted accomplice Courfeyrac picked up for me! Don't try to tell me otherwise!"

Here, he rose himself up and grabbed hold of Joly's arm in his sweaty grip. "Damn him to all nine hells and damn yourself for not getting here faster!"

Joly froze, his body tensing up as his gaze slowly fixed itself on Gillenormand's face. At the sight of that gaze, at its coldness and almost reptilian maliciousness, Gillenormand went a bit whiter and dropped Joly's arm. Grantaire had stepped forward as Gillenormand grabbed Joly, relaxing only when his friend was released.

"My apologies," he muttered. "I am ill, you see."

Joly abruptly smiled, the fury behind his eyes dissipating immediately. "Do not worry so! That's why I'm here." He took out a stethoscope and for a few minutes, listened to the sound of Gillenormand's ragged breathing through it. After which, he checked underneath the man's eyelids and then drew back the covers to inspect his patient's legs.

He tapped the skin below Gillenormand's knees with a small metal object. "Can you feel that?"

"Yes."

"A good sign."

Grantaire stood awkwardly in the room, wondering how he was supposed to be helping Joly. The man was feverish but seemed to be in control of his faculties. The danger passed, he glanced around here and there. The bedroom was irritatingly cheerful, bouquets of flowers on the nightstands, the boudoir, paintings of fields and meadows adorning the walls. The wallpaper itself was a nauseatingly bright pink with yellow trim.

In his inspection of the walls, his eyes caught something in the very top corner. A small black box with a sort of circular ring and piece of glass, like a miniature telescope. Though it was nothing like any telescope he'd ever seen, and it was in such an odd spot. There was a pinprick of bright red light on the box. It moved, turning that dead eye on him, and he startled.

"Joly. Joly," he said, tugging his friend's sleeve. "What is that?"

"Hm?" Joly was rummaging about in his black bag when Grantaire tugged at his sleeve. He tried not to flinch away from the contact. Really, Grantaire could be so careless about these matters. Sometimes he wondered if Grantaire merely did it to antagonize him.

He took out a syringe and a bottle of medicine before looking up at the camera. "It's a surveillance monitor, Grantaire. Granted, it's an older model, but you should still be used to it. Feel free to wave."

Surveillance monitor. Grantaire knew both these words, but had never heard them put together in such a way before. They meant the same thing, didn't they? To survey meant to monitor, to monitor meant to be looking over... He shook his head, turning away from the weird box thing and back to the conversation.

Joly turned his attention back to M. Gillenormand. "Now then, what you have is known affectionately in peasant terms as 'The Rot'. I'm afraid that the first to go would be the more fatty muscles in your body. It starts working in your legs then builds up to the groin. This particular strain devours muscle tissue, but leaves the bone intact. I've seen it before in a few others. Fortunately, it doesn't have to be fatal, but it will leave you without use of your legs, and I'm afraid you'll have to say good bye to your nether regions. In a week's time, it will simply fall right off. Granted, by that point, you'll be quite thankful when it does since your nerves will be screaming at that point. You'll likely wish for death throughout the entire week, and maybe even for a time afterwards. What's the use of being a man if you haven't such bits?"

Joly spoke quietly but with no less conviction. It had taken him years to learn to keep the amusement out of his voice, a playful tone being unnecessary here.

"Fortunately, you called me in time. The medication used to treat such an ailment is right here. I can supply it for you and stave off the disease. Your bits and legs will be spared from any autopsies. I'm one of the only doctors in this country that can grant you this relief, I'm sorry to say. This sort of medication just isn't known for making the rounds."

Largely due to a few laws set against it. Joly was all for experimental medication, especially when he developed it himself. A few guinea pigs had been required, of course, but men were always swimming in one vice or another.

"I'll be happy to inject you with this and go on my merry way. For the right price."

Grantaire had listened to Joly speak before about illness, forgetting the finer points of this new disease or that new plague. Being a friend of Joly's meant sympathizing with him, but at the same time humoring him. He was rarely as sick as he ever thought he was, and a declaration of some new malady that gripped him was hardly cause for alarm. However, as he described 'The Rot' Grantaire felt his stomach twist in anxiety. Was it catching? Surely Joly wouldn't have put him at risk if it was contagious through the air. Nevertheless he stepped back.

Gillenormand listened to Joly's words, his face growing more drawn by the second. "Price?"

"Yes. Price. These sorts of medications don't come cheap. How much are your legs worth to you? Not as much as your bits, I'd wager. You mentioned Courfeyrac before, didn't you? Smears against my friend only make the price go higher. Considering your ostentatious wealth, I'd say, perhaps, two thousand francs. I'm being very generous here, monsieur. I should ask for three, but I do know that tax season is coming around, and we all know what happens when people can't pay that."

Grantaire's jaw dropped as he heard the price. Two thousand francs. That was an insanely large amount of money, and certainly more than he'd ever had in his hand at one time. He even lost track of his allowance, knowing it was enough to sustain his apartment and his habit and little more. Yes, this man was rich, but was that really a reason to extort that amount from him? Perhaps Joly was going to use it to help the less fortunate? Maybe to set up a hospital for underprivileged children. That would explain his price, though not the slight glee in his voice as he talked about losing bits.

M. Gillenormand was thinking along nearly the same lines of reason. "That much? Are you insane?"

"I haven't been officially diagnosed yet."

"I can get another doctor! I can inform the police of your practices!"

"You can," Joly nodded in agreement. "I'd probably be ushered out of your estate. I would pay off the gendarmes, and I would go about my business. You would call upon another doctor who would be waylaid at the borders of our fair city, and while you waited and screamed your agony for all the world to hear, he would be twiddling his thumbs, awed by the amount of red tape, and I would be out on the bench in the park feeding the pigeons."

He tapped the bottle of medication. "Or you can pay the amount and we part on amiable terms."

"This is extortion!"

"Not at all. This is a financial business matter between two businessmen. I have what you want. You have what I want. A proper trade-off. A gentleman's agreement."

"You are no gentleman!"

"I do not dabble with strumpets if that's what you're getting at, monsieur. I know what sort of diseases one could catch out there." There was no mistaking the joy in Joly's voice now. He smiled while he talked and his fingers twirled the syringe, being mindful of the needle. "So what shall it be? I dislike bantering about my terms."

In the end, Gillenormand paid. No sooner had the check slipped into Joly's black bag did the syringe plunge down into Gillenormand's left leg. Joly's aim was always true. He admired the tint of the vein in the old man's white leg for a few seconds longer than necessary before extracting the syringe. A band-aid covered in happy faces was summarily plunked down upon the small pinprick.

"There now. That wasn't so bad, was it? I'd offer you a lollipop but those are for the children."

Gillenormand shuddered at the thought.

Grantaire's head was spinning, and he was fairly sure it wasn't due to the consumption of absinthe. In fact, he felt more sober now than he'd had in quite some time. Despite Joly's protests, this was indeed extortion. However, he knew it wasn't his place to say anything. Who was he to question his friend's actions? Joly had always been good to him, always willing to lend him money or let him pass out on his floor when Grantaire didn't feel like trudging back to an empty apartment. He did his utmost to keep Grantaire in good cheer, and Grantaire counted him an irreplaceable friend.

He had kept quiet, wincing a bit as the needle disappeared into Gillenormand's leg. An odd bit of... something went over the small pinprick. Grantaire shook his head but didn't ask. It seemed there was a lot more to Joly's eccentricities than he would have ever guessed. He waited for Joly to pack up his bag and followed him from the room, highly unnerved by everything that had just passed.

"What did you need me for?" he asked, as that seemed like the safest question for now.

"To watch my back, my friend," Joly replied. "The old man can be a bit loud. He can be a bit obnoxious. But he is rich and the rich are not without their lackeys. I once had to dispose of an old patient because I went unaccompanied. I did try to warn his guards that if they came closer, that little pocket of air in my syringe would be the end of their employer. I do wish people had more faith in doctors these days."

He didn't sound remorseful.

An accomplished fighter, Grantaire could at least appreciate Joly's reasoning, though not the entire answer. He was referencing something Grantaire had no knowledge of. And from the sound of it, Joly had killed someone. That wasn't right. He simply must have heard incorrectly. There was no way Joly would ever be talking about murdering someone. And with something bordering glee in his voice.


	2. Chapter 2

AN: Once again, co-written with TCRegan.

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**Chapter Two**

The maid returned their coats with another smile, this one aimed primarily at Grantaire. Joly took notice of it.

Grantaire took his coat and slipped it on, not returning the smile, though not out of any conscious rudeness. He was still trying to adapt to the odd new changes. How long had he been asleep? How truly out of it was he that he couldn't remember something as amazing as a scooter, something as seemingly commonplace as a surveillance monitor? It didn't make any sense.

"I wouldn't bother with her," Joly warned once they got outside. "It's dangerous to return to such a scene after a shakedown, but then I guess I'm preaching to the choir. Still, it's a wonder she noticed you at all considering the state you're in. Why do your clothes reek of stale wine? Surely you slept at some point? Or are you going undercover today to see what the misery of Paris has to offer?"

"I slept at the café," he said sullenly. "I was waiting for you and the others."

"Slept at the-" Joly gave him an odd look. "We haven't been to the Musain in quite some time. When we meet, we do so in far more discreet venues or at one of our homes. Times are getting too dangerous for us. While the police aren't even close to figuring out our goals or how many Amis there are, they have been making life difficult for our newest recruits. We've had to tread carefully, much to the consternation of a few of our more audacious members."

Grantaire shoved his hands in his pockets, frowning as his fingers found a piece of paper that wasn't there before. Withdrawing it, he looked it over. It had a series of numbers on it and at the end, she'd drawn what looked like a playing card symbol. A heart. He understood that, he thought, but the numbers left him at a bit of a loss. They weren't coordinates or even a street address. A code? But he didn't know any code.

"What does this mean?" he asked, handing the paper to Joly.

Joly glanced at the card Grantaire withdrew. "That's certainly not her figures," he remarked with a crooked leer. "Her phone number, Capital R. I'd imagine you'll add it to your collection and never bother to call. Though the last thing I really want to hear is another of your escapades."

_Phone number?_ Grantaire thought. _What in the seven levels of hell was a phone number?_

He took it back from Joly and replaced it in his pocket. Another scooter whooshed by and he jumped, nearly tripping over himself to get out of the way. Whatever it was, it was fast and likely dangerous. Possibly even more so than a horse-drawn carriage careening out of control. He wouldn't have liked to have been on the receiving end of that type of accident.

Grantaire's behavior was starting to trouble Joly. Was he asking out of seriousness? How could he forget something so simple as what a phone number was or how to use it? Perhaps this was a new game? Or worse, a new test? Was he being tried somehow? Was there a leak within their system and he was suspected?

Joly had held out only once on _him_. Once had been enough. Bossuet had to cover his work for a week, picking up checks and canceling appointments that needed true medical attention. He had not dared hold out on the Republic since then. So why was he suspected now? Perhaps forgiveness had not yet been earned.

He took great pains to look normal. Wariness may imply guilt to Grantaire and he had nothing about which to be guilty.

"Come now, is this some new game of yours?"

"A game? I should think not. I think my own head is playing games with me, though. Joly, I think I might be going a bit mad."

A shadow fell over them, one darker than a cloud would and he looked up. The sight in the sky startled him, though not as badly as the scooter had. Some odd bastardization of a balloon, he thought, though he hadn't seen many of those so maybe he was remembering it wrong. Elongated, with a basket to match, it floated slowly in the air like some odd bird of prey simply enjoying an afternoon flight.

Pale, shaking, feeling more than a bit overwhelmed, he crossed the pavement to a bench and sat down, not bothering to wait for Joly.

Joly watched Grantaire carefully, searching for any signs of deception. The man was not known for subtlety. Rather, his movements tended to be on the brash side. He wielded his emotions like a sledgehammer, full of vigor and had not one care in the world for concealment. Oftentimes, this got Grantaire into some degree of trouble.

Joly was convinced that Grantaire could perform deception if he had to, but he didn't think his friend was toying with him. The show of weakness did make his heart jump a little. Was Grantaire's mind splintering? If so, what could have caused it?

Had he been thrown out of his job? Normally there was only one person who could send Grantaire teetering off the edge of the abyss, right down into the blackness of despair, where he would stay until that same person pulled him out again. Joly considered making the phone call, but dismissed the thought as an impulse move. There were safer measures, and if Grantaire was already in trouble, Joly had no desire to share his fate.

Instead, he walked over to where Grantaire sat. He was hesitant to touch his friend's shoulder as even the consideration of physical contact made him squeamish. Still, desperate times called for desperate measures.

"I do not understand your bewilderment, Grantaire. Are you in your cups? Have you had a terrible argument, perhaps, with Enjolras? What is the truth behind your current state? I can help you if you just lend me some answers."

Grantaire took several deep, shuddering, calming breaths. Never before had he experienced hallucinations to this degree. The green fairy had taken him on trips before, but nothing ever like this. He felt a light hand on his shoulder and looked up into Joly's concerned face. Everyone was treating these things as if they were commonplace. No one stopped to glance up at the sky, gasping and pointing. No one shrieked and leaped out of the way of the oncoming scooters. No one stared at the huge smoke stacks or even seemed to think twice about the gate that moved on its own, the box that held a voice or the black eye on the wall of Gillenormand's bedroom.

He really was going mad. He had cracked. In his last moment of sanity he remembered waking, walking to the Musain, getting a few bottles, starting early on his drink and sitting down to draw. The absinthe took over his mind and obviously wasn't letting go. This was a full blown, utterly mad, completely eccentric hallucination. But...

But the touch of Joly's hand on his shoulder. The smell of bread in the air, pungent even through the acrid smoke. The wind through his hair. It was all so very vivid. This had to be real, couldn't possibly be a hallucination.

"I think I'm just ill, perhaps," he said at last. "No... no argument with Enjolras."

To see him, though. Perhaps that would ease his mind. Enjolras had a way of grounding him, of bringing him back from whatever ailed him. It would do him good to see the man. That decision settled, he stood.

"I think I'll go see him, though. Where is he?"

"Wherever he wants to be."

Joly did not mean to be vague. Enjolras' schedule was a demanding one, making him difficult to pin down even when Joly had made an appointment with him. Certainly, Enjolras was punctual enough, but where he was before the clock struck the hour for the meeting, Joly wasn't sure.

"If you'd like, I can give him a call. He might send someone here to pick you up." He was hesitant still to reach for his phone.

Another thought occurred to him then. Perhaps Grantaire truly was breaking apart. His tone still sounded earnest, his eyes wild as he tried to look everywhere at once. He sounded insecure, afraid even. Certainly the former Joly could associate with Grantaire. He hung about with men who constantly towered over others.

But never afraid. Never fearful. Never so obviously weak. It disgusted Joly to his core to see his friend in such a way, but more than that, it also fed into his ambition. He didn't care to take over Grantaire's position within their ranks, but one less out of the way cut down on the take he had to pay up through his extortions. He opened his black bag once more, his fingers lingering on a scalpel he kept for emergencies and his cell phone.

"Are you certain this is what you want?"

Something in Joly's tone made Grantaire pause. There had been something off, something not quite right. But it went beyond just an attitude shift or a difference in phrasing. Joly could be sarcastic, usually after a full day of dealing with Bossuet's antics. He could be a little rude if ever he got frustrated. He could be gleeful, though he'd never heard Joly take glee in someone else's pain. There was one thing that Grantaire had never heard in Joly's voice before. And he heard it now.

Joly was threatening.

It wasn't himself that had changed. It was his friend. His friend had gone from a gleeful if slightly worried, almost overbearing, joyous person to this odd, nearly sadistic wretch of a man. He didn't like it. So he did what anyone would do in his situation. He grinned.

"No, I'm fine. Just a little shook up. Hit the bottle too hard," he said in his jauntiest tone. "After an hour or two of rest I'll be fine, I'm sure. Maybe some food. Think I might have hit my head. Temporary amnesia."

Because truly that made sense, he thought rather sarcastically. But if Joly bought that, it would buy Grantaire some much needed time.

Joly returned the grin, albeit sans mirth. "Of course." He snapped out another pair of gloves from his bag rather than the scalpel he was going for. The noise of the latex cut through the air, adding to the tension between them. He exchanged his gloves for the new ones, balling up the old and tossing them aside.

"Such a terrible thing to have, amnesia. Makes a man wary, susceptible to paranoia," he explained, his wariness now replaced with an intensity as he considered his next best course of action. "Particularly a man in your line of work. You have a good deal of enemies, Grantaire. It would be best for you to seek a safe haven. We've a line of refuges throughout Paris. Perhaps you could find comfort in one of them."

Grantaire didn't like that noise. Nor did he care for the grin. This man, whoever he was, was not his friend. He'd replaced Joly. He had Joly's face and hair and build, but none of his joy or personality. And as he listened to what Joly said, it made less and less sense to him.

Joly waited and watched, searching for another sign of weakness as his bag remained open. A light wind brushed against his coat, making the long tails flap like the gentle wings of a dove in flight. "I wonder what could have caused you to return to the bottle hard enough to put yourself in such a state. Perhaps you did have a falling out and do not wish to recall. That would be a terrible shame. A disgrace to the Republic. I would hate to think that you could fall so far, Grantaire."

Disgrace to the Republic. There was no republic, not yet. They'd been working toward it - well, Grantaire had been drinking toward it, listening to the others work.

Fall so far. From what? From where did Grantaire have to fall that it would be considered a far distance? From the chair to the floor wasn't far at all. From the bed to the ground roughly the same distance. He had no position in life, couldn't even really be considered a student anymore after halting abruptly in his studies. Nothing Joly said made sense, and it chilled him.

"Perhaps I'll do that," he said airily. He wasn't sure where any of the refuges were, though. And he certainly didn't want to ask Joly. "Where are the others? Bahorel and the rest? Maybe seeing them would jog my memory a bit. Get in touch, learn what's been happening in my absence."

"They're scattered about here and there," Joly said off-handedly. "Bahorel is wherever Enjolras is, which could be anywhere since I'm not familiar with his schedule. Courfeyrac is likely within one of his usual haunts. Combeferre and the rest are wherever they need to be. We all have our individual jobs to perform. Have you your phone on your person? If so, I'm sure their numbers are on your speed dial."

He still grinned as he cocked his head to the side, his hair sliding down to touch upon his shoulder. He had to admit that this was a most intriguing development. Grantaire, being unable to remember anything so basic. Surely getting rid of him would ease up a few of his burdens, but perhaps that wasn't the way to go either.

He could call Enjolras. Make him aware of the situation. Would he be rewarded? Perhaps. Or he would be told to do otherwise, which would mean not having to dump the weighted body in the Seine and hope that none of the others found out about what he had done. It would be better to receive permission, after all.

There was no begging for forgiveness within their group. "Let me call Enjolras. He'll know what to do." His fingers touched back upon his cell phone. He took out the small, black phone and flipped open the lid. "This will only take a moment."

Again that word. Phone. And Joly, he was sure, was being vague on purpose. Surely Grantaire should know where his friend were at all times. But that was absurd. He didn't keep tabs on them even before this fiasco. He rubbed his face with both hands, a gesture that was familiar to him when he was trying to collect his bearings. It gave him comfort to know that in this odd alternate reality, his features remained wholly unchanged. Running his fingers back through his hair, he waited.

And then Joly pulled out something small and black, smaller than the small and black device he'd seen at Gillenormand's house. It opened, held together obviously by some hinge, and pressed his thumb against the device several times. He watched, intrigued as Joly held the device to his ear. What was a phone? Why was it so small? And he was supposed to have one of these things? He checked his pockets in earnest but came up with nothing but a few pencils and that paper that held the maid's phone number. You must have to enter the number into the phone. But then what?

He waited.

Joly kept the phone a very short distance away from his ear. The other line rang several times before he heard the soft click of the receiver picking it up. There was no familiar 'hello' on the other end. Joly didn't expect there to be.

"You'll never guess who I found in the Musain," he began, trying to keep his tone light. "Grantaire of all people. He's sitting out here with me. I'm afraid he's suffering from-"

"Grantaire is right here." The soft voice was familiar to Joly. It echoed quietly in the phone's chamber. Only a few simple words and yet the cadence was almost unbearably fulfilling at the same time as the words were chilling. This was an even more unexpected development. Still, Joly knew better than to ask if the one on the other end of the phone call was absolutely certain.

Of course he was.

"Then I suppose I've met the wrong person. He wears Grantaire's face."

"Then you may as well relieve him of it."

The line went dead.

Joly moved his cell phone away from him and flicked the lid down. "The wonders of today are the sureties of tomorrow," he breathed. Permission had been granted, and he longed to see what lay beyond the skin of the impostor in front of him. Smiling, he looked at Grantaire.

"We should take a walk."

Grantaire opened his mouth to speak, then closed it just as quickly. Joly wasn't speaking to him. He wasn't even looking at him. No stranger to eavesdropping, suddenly he understood. It was one half of a conversation. The phone was some kind of communication device. Joly was talking to Enjolras over that strange little thing and somehow Enjolras was answering. Either that or they were just playing one huge joke on him. It was cruel and he was more than a little put out. However, when the phone snapped shut and Joly turned to him, a chill ran down his spine.

Joly wasn't joking.

Fight or flight instinct took hold. Palms sweating, mouth dry, Grantaire shook his head.

"No, I don't feel much like walking, actually. I think I'll head home to lie down for a bit. Relax. Take a nap. I'll see you later," he said, taking a step backward.

"Oh, but I insist. You shouldn't run at all in your condition. You're liable to slip and fall into the river. Trust me, I'm a doctor. I know these things." In but a few seconds, Joly had placed his cell phone back in his bag and had taken out his scalpel. The silver metal shone in the sunlight until he tucked it further up his sleeve.

He didn't fear Grantaire realizing what he had planned. If this truly wasn't Grantaire, then that meant he lacked Grantaire's training and abilities. He was just some poor fool who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Granted, Joly had messed up a bit by letting this false friend witness what went on between himself and Gillenormand. It was a mistake that would easily be rectified.

"Please don't make a scene, monsieur. Things could go very badly for you if you do." This was more of a warning Joly tended to give to others, but then it was a rarity that he bothered to kill in broad daylight when his victim wasn't laying upon a bed and the weapon he chose wasn't a syringe. "Let's both be reasonable about this. You've seen too much, you already know too much. This is your fault, you realize. If you hadn't tried to get so much information out of me, perhaps I would have let you walk away. Instead, we have overplayed our hands and now it's time for you to rest. But do not be afraid. I'll grant you peace everlasting. That's what so many people want, is it not?"

Complete sobriety takes a person in a few instances. Even bottles deep, one could be dragged from the depths of inebriation in a matter of seconds when faced with a life or death situation. Grantaire heard Joly's words, but did not understand their meaning. There was only one thing that registered in his mind as that sharp scalpel glinted in the sun: survival.

He ducked as Joly lunged forward, gripping his wrist and using the momentum to knock him off balance. Drawing his knee up, it connected solidly with his friend's solar plexus, hopefully knocking the wind out of him. Those precious few seconds that Joly would be gasping for breath were exactly what Grantaire needed. He snatched the black bag from Joly's arm and wrenched it away. Without checking to see if he'd achieved his goal, Grantaire turned and fled from the man he once called a friend.

Joly hadn't been ready for the abrupt movements Grantaire made toward his person. He had hoped the man was still tipsy at the very least, and ended up doubling over from the hit. This wasn't what he had planned! Worse still, the fiend made off with his bag! Bossuet had warned him multiple times before how he should carry his phone in one of his pockets rather than his bag, but it always felt so bulky near his person.

He gripped his side and focused first on his breathing. The hit hadn't damaged anything internally. Apparently this unusual man was more inclined to hit and run rather than kill and take off. More's the pity, really. Joly had been given a direct order and he knew better than to disobey. The last thing he wanted to do was report to Enjolras that he had failed and now there was someone roving about Paris who knew what he did.

What would happen then? If this impostor went to the police, he may be arrested. But even then, Bossuet's legal team would keep him free. Courfeyrac would easily be able to get to the jurors. Still, the stigma would remain and Enjolras didn't like stigmas. They brought their names down and their deeds into the light, precisely where they ought never to go.

Joly heaved himself upwards as soon as he could move again and raced after Grantaire. He couldn't even contact anyone to get help right now. He supposed he could always stop someone in the street and request to use their phone, but the potential of another being able to access their numbers was anathema to him.

He was running out of choices.


End file.
